


Hell and Indecision

by Cards_Slash



Series: Second Verse [3]
Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: Bad Touch, Dubious Consent, Enemies to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:07:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22805350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cards_Slash/pseuds/Cards_Slash
Summary: “The part,” Fish said with a nervous itch in his voice, “where they said--  The part where they’re all saying--  Doc,” he leaned forward into the table, closing the gap between them like it was possible to keep a secret in a public place, “did you really sleep with Bobo?”“I do not believe that is an appropriate question to ask a man.”Disbelief had a way of hanging on a man’s jaw, but disgust was always brightest in the eyes.  That was a funny look for a creature of hell to be aiming at him.  “You did,” Fish whispered.  “I never would have thought.”“Fish,” Doc said.  He was not in the mood to waste his time discussing his sexual adventures.  He would never be in the mood to justify himself to any one that had been to hell and come back again, it didn’t matter how pretty his eyelashes were.“Doc, you’ve got to know what they’re saying.  They all know that you’re Bobo’s...” Fish stuttered on a word he didn’t like saying, “well, that’s it.  You belong to Bobo now and nobody is supposed to lay a finger on you.”
Relationships: Doc Holliday/Bobo Del Rey | Robert Svane
Series: Second Verse [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1632727
Comments: 5
Kudos: 21





	Hell and Indecision

Hell had ripped him to pieces too small to be reassembled  _ properly _ so it had filled up the gaps with hellfire and  _ hatred _ . Every day for an  _ eternity _ he had been pulled apart and put together again, each and  _ every _ time the configuration got a little farther away from the man he  _ had _ been. Bobo was the  _ thing _ that hell had made him to be, but Robert-fucking-Svane’s spineless fucking problems were still hounding at his heels. 

Waverly Earp was the name on his lips when he died, the last thing that Robert Svane remembered when he woke up in hell. He’d wrapped that idea so tightly inside of the ribbons of his flesh that no matter how many ways they put him together,  _ Waverly _ was still the sound of a promised savior.

Helping Waverly had never been a  _ choice _ and he’d never once  _ doubted _ that it had to be done; but saving Waverly meant helping  _ Wynonna _ . And Wynonna was as self-important as her last name, showing up in interrogation rooms he didn’t belong in with guns that sent people back to hell. She had an  _ idea _ of what was true and just enough morals to justify her own view of thinking.

(And wasn’t  _ that _ just like an  _ Earp _ .)

Ward had been a bastard of a man; easily the worst of a bad lot but at least he’d been an  _ honest _ sort of son of a bitch. 

Bobo could handle Waverly and he could  _ tolerate _ Wynonna. No, the worst of Robert’s problems was the one that just  _ couldn’t _ be gotten rid of.

Constance fucking Clootie was a  _ necessity _ and that meant the only option that Bobo had was to  _ withstand _ her. And he had, oh  _ hell _ . He had been  _ withstanding _ her for decades. He had been a sack of meat and bones for her amusement longer than he could stomach it. And she used him like a puppet when it suited her, reciting spells that made the air turn sour and creeping up his crawling skin to take whatever she wanted.

Her voice was a living nightmare. Her hands as hot as firebrands, always gripping his face when she was  _ done _ making use of him. She smiled at him with her body still clutching his cock because she liked the way it felt to be  _ powerful _ .

Because Constance had been playing this game since Bobo was Robert fucking Svane, and she had yet to lose. 

“Now,” she whispered against his mouth, pressing her fingers where his jaw was clenched just to make it  _ hurt _ , “I want to see my  _ boys _ , Robert. You are going to let me, aren’t you?”

Robert had gone to hell thinking all it took to be a good man was the will to do what was right. If only he’d known how he was going to end up. Bobo said, “whatever you want,  _ Constance _ ,” because the only way  _ out _ was through and she had the keys.

\--

Doc’s body was half-covered in bruises under his clothes, but a good shirt and a well-tailored vest could hide half of your lies. It was a pretty set of feathers, as good as smoke and mirrors to draw the right sort of attention exactly where you wanted it to go. 

Wynonna’s interest in the shape of his body beneath his clothes worked well enough to his advantage that he could  _ almost _ convince himself that there was no harm in it. She looked at him like a sure thing, like a mountain she was just waiting for the right opportunity to climb (as crude as that might sound). There was no  _ trust _ in sexual attraction, but it sure did make it easier to slide into the good graces of someone that liked the way you looked.

So maybe he was a liar dressed up in a honest man’s clothes, letting her smile at him like they were confidantes and friends, because she didn’t know where he’d been and what he’d been doing. Doc was working toward a goal and Wynonna was a safer bet than Bobo and his gang of slobbering mongrels. Wynonna had  _ resources _ and a willingness to help a man with a soft smile and a great need.

All Doc needed was the location of the witch and maybe some ammunition. He could get both if he played his cards right.

But  _ Fish _ ; well Fish was a starry-eyed lover. The sort of man that you found yourself willing to root for no matter what side you were standing on. Doc was sitting across the table from the man, smiling for the sake of it, knowing all the while exactly what Wynonna was going to find out from Vinnie the Vulture.

That was just the sort of person Doc Holliday was; the sort of man that sat at your table smiling at your face, knowing exactly where he’d left your lost lover. Levi wasn’t even lucky enough to be in hell; he was staked out across an invisible line, still screaming the way he’d been screaming when Doc left him there. 

Fish had regretful eyes, he was turning his whiskey on the table, thinking out how he wanted to say what he was thinking. “I didn’t think they were telling me the truth over at the RV park.” His smile was soft as melting butter, pained at the edges. “ _ Doc Holliday _ . I thought they had to be pulling my leg, I thought it could  _ not _ be true.”

“Which part could  _ not _ be true?” Doc said with the taste of whiskey on his tongue. “The part where I am alive and well?”

“The part,” Fish said with a nervous itch in his voice, “where they said-- The part where they’re  _ all _ saying-- Doc,” he leaned forward into the table, closing the gap between them like it was possible to keep a secret in a public place, “did you  _ really _ sleep with Bobo?”

“I do not believe that is an appropriate question to ask a man.”

Disbelief had a way of hanging on a man’s jaw, but disgust was always brightest in the eyes. That was a funny look for a creature of hell to be aiming at  _ him _ . “You  _ did _ ,” Fish whispered. “I  _ never _ would have thought.”

“Fish,” Doc said. He was not in the  _ mood _ to waste his time discussing his sexual adventures. He would  _ never _ be in the mood to justify himself to any one that had been to  _ hell _ and come back again, it didn’t matter how pretty his eyelashes were. 

“Doc, you’ve got to know what they’re saying. They all know that you’re Bobo’s...” Fish stuttered on a word he didn’t like saying, “well, that’s it. You belong to Bobo now and  _ nobody _ is supposed to lay a finger on you.”

“Wynonna’s going to kill you as soon as she finds your lover,” Doc said. He let it roll off his tongue, sounding nothing at all like he was sorry about it. It wasn’t Fish’s fault that Bobo didn’t have a single ounce of discretion; he was just a friend trying to offer a  _ friendly _ warning. 

Since they were friends, Fish didn’t even look surprised. He just sighed as he deflated back into his chair. “You don’t want her hearing the things I’ve heard,” he said.

“I can handle Wynonna,” Doc said. Fish was kind enough not to dispute the obvious facts. They fell into drinking like pretending everything was  _ just _ fine.

\--

Bobo had made a  _ tactical _ error. He’d gotten caught up in a  _ moment _ . That was the sort of thing that happened to you when you took things too  _ personally _ . Humans had the luxury of momentary emotions; they had the benefit of mortality to give  _ meaning _ to their acts of vengeance. 

A man running out of time was a man on a mission to set right the wrongs done to him. It depended on the man if he went searching for absolution or justice.

Trading the name of the witch for the right to fuck Henry had been a momentary weakness. It had been an idea that wriggled under his skin and tickled him until he couldn’t think of anything else. It had been vengeance on a dead man, long since gone to heaven, that probably hadn’t spared a second thought about the men he sent to hell. Wyatt died still searching for Henry because nobody else was  _ ever _ going to be enough.

Constance Clootie was using him like a sex doll and a worker bee, sending him to dig for the remains of her sons. In the drafty shed outside their latest attempt at finding the  _ pieces _ , she was laying on a tarp on the ground, wearing funeral attire, whispering Mother’s love to bones, acting like she’d forgotten they were the reason Bobo had been sent to hell. (Or maybe she hadn’t. Maybe she  _ knew _ exactly what she was doing when she’d sent him to dig them up.) 

“By the by,” Constance said on her way  _ out _ , “when were you going to tell me that Doc Holliday was back among the living?”

Because Bobo was as useful as a shovel, nothing more than a tool. But John Henry Holliday? Well, whatever he was made of, it got people’s attention. It put fear in Constance’s face the way it had wound itself so deep into Wyatt it couldn’t be pulled out. 

Bobo was crouching on the ground because there was  _ nothing _ he could do but wait it out. “When were you gonna to tell me that he scares the living shit out of you?”

Constance had the smile of a vulture. She had a nose for blood that was only rivalled by her thirst for drawing it. She ran her tongue across her lipsticked lips, spared a look at the bones of her demon children and then settled on him. “Oh,” she said so softly, “is that why you fucked him, Robert? You thought,” she took a step forward with her thighs sliding together in a way that never meant  _ anything _ good, “you’d get him to take care of  _ me _ ?”

“That was  _ personal _ ,” Bobo said.

“Oh,” was bright as bubblegum and just as loud as a pop, “so, you fucked him to get back at Wyatt?” She laughed. The smell of her was changing, the pitch of her voice dropped. She was close enough he had to tip his head to look at her, and she  _ loved _ it. Her fingernails were smoothing down his face to press against the underside of his chin, “honey,  _ Wyatt _ doesn’t care. Doc Holliday could whore himself out in all fifty states and Wyatt would  _ never _ have picked you.”

(He thought, as he  _ often _ did, how very much he would have liked to peel her skin from her flesh. How he would have submerged her in salt baths to see if it made her burn. He could cure her like a ham, hanging in an old shed, and show up every so often to carve off a fresh piece when the mood struck him.)

“Remember,” she whispered as her tongue ran across his mouth, “I’m the  _ only _ one that’s ever cared about you. And I’m the  _ only _ way you’re getting out of here.”

\--

Wyatt, God rest his soul, had a way of looking at a man like he couldn’t help but see the best bits. That was the sort of thing that happened when you got yourself involved with a good man. Maybe it mattered to more people than it didn’t that Doc had never been easily classified as either good or bad. He’d straddled a line the most of his life, doing just enough good to get away with doing the bad. But it hadn’t mattered one fucking iota to Wyatt Earp who had kissed him up against a bed post like he’d been  _ dying _ to try it.

Now,  _ someone _ had to have told Wyatt about the sort of man that Doc could be or he wouldn’t have tried. But no matter what methods Doc had employed to wiggle the truth out of him, Wyatt never budged. No history according to Mr. Earp was simply that he had  _ wanted _ to kiss Doc and so he  _ had _ .

Wynonna wasn’t Wyatt but she was still looking at him like all the proof in the world wasn’t going to be enough to convince her what she  _ wanted _ to see wasn’t real. She  _ wanted _ to blame him for what he’d done to Levi and she  _ wanted _ to know that he cared, that for all his tough talk and all his past actions, he wouldn’t have done it if he’d  _ known _ . 

But he  _ had _ known who Levi was and he  _ had _ known what was going to happen. He  _ had _ known who Fish was looking for and he  _ had  _ known what they were going to find and no amount of Wynonna Earp looking at him with a glaze of tears in her eyes was  _ ever _ going to change that.

It had been damn near impossible to be anything but what Wyatt wanted when he was looking at you. That wasn’t because you weren’t what you were; it was because you got good at pretending and you started convincing yourself those things were true.

Truth was, Doc was half-sure he kissed Wynonna because he was mad as hell. He knew what would happen as soon as he pulled his hat off, and he knew that there was nothing  _ good _ that could come of it. A man didn’t always have time to think of consequences in the moment. 

She rolled him on his back in the dirt, and his head felt a little giddy and stupid, thinking how commonplace it was starting to get: him on his back. He caught her hands when she went for the buttons of his shirt, and she settled for kissing him with her bare knees in the dirt. 

(And the thought, out of rhythm with their fucking,  _ what would Wyatt think _ , like Bobo’s breath on his neck.)

\--

If Bobo had known he was going to be in  _ need _ of a reason to string up some of his more useless and more stupid followers, he might not have spent so much time on Willard. He could have  _ waited _ , he could have let Henry sweat a little longer. He might have waited until they went back around for a second attempt.

Bobo could have caught them in the act, because Henry must have never seen the point in hiding and Willard was stupid as a sack of bricks. The things he could have done to those three when he found them with their sweaty palms on Henry would have--

But there he was, again, getting caught in the  _ moment _ . There he was, letting a witch get under his skin. You couldn’t get through decades getting caught on the  _ moments _ . Constance wouldn’t matter when he was free; Henry wouldn’t matter as soon as he got what he wanted because he’d be gone in the very next second.

Willard didn’t even matter  _ now _ . The best that could be said for him is that he’d impressed upon enough revenants that Bobo was in a  _ mood _ that the whole stinking lot of them had found safer places to be farther away from him. There were never many revenants at the dig site this late, but one or two of them were industrious enough to stick around until Bobo left himself. They were brown-nosers, looking for a prime-spot on the food chain but even that sort of man wasn’t willing to take his chances when the odds were against him. 

It was Bobo and a mound of  _ fucking dirt _ . The smell of the turned earth like futility; it was so strong it was soaked into his skin. It had become a taste caught around the back of his teeth so it felt like every breath was dragging it into his lungs. The dirt was caked on his hands, and crusted under his fingernails, and stuck in the grooves of his footprints everywhere he went. 

Bobo smelled the faint stink of those cigarillos Henry liked smoking before he heard the man’s footsteps picking their way up the path. He hadn’t been having any fun sitting on his ass in the bed of his truck, thinking about the worth of what he was doing, but at least he’d been  _ alone _ to do it. “Well,” he shouted into the falling dusk, “isn’t this my lucky day?”

Henry was unimpressed with his smoke pinched between his fingers and his hat just slightly crooked on his head. “That would depend, I guess, on your definition of luck.”

“I don’t know,  _ Henry _ . Every time I’m around you I find myself getting lucky.” He shoved his hands into the rough, cold metal to push himself to the end of the tailgate. His feet hit the ground as Henry tossed his cigarillo to the side.

Henry just sighed; he didn’t move any closer. He rested his hands on his guns and he clenched his jaw and he just  _ waited _ . He just stood still, gathering himself like a thunderstorm. When he did move, it was like a flash of lightning, pulling his guns free from his holster like that hadn’t been his intention the whole time. 

Bullets were the first bits of metal he’d ever learned to push. They were as easy as breathing to divert and he sent them flying into the dirt. The  _ fucking  _ dirt as tall as mountains on every side; the dirt collecting in his lungs, turning him into a forest. “That’s not nice, Henry,” Bobo said. 

This was going to be a fight no matter what weapons they worked themselves down to. John Henry was as mean as a rabid animal. He dropped the guns when they didn’t work but he wasn’t about to  _ give _ up. No, he was shrugging out of his coat as he started walking forward. Bobo threw his own into the truck bed behind him. 

Maybe, on a different day,  _ maybe _ if all of Robert’s old wounds weren’t bleeding down his back, he would have given Henry the chance to set his feet. There were rules to a proper fight and expectations of the participants that there be fairness. If there couldn’t be fairness, the  _ unfairness _ should be on the  _ right _ side. Henry was just the sort of man that always assumed he was right and that must have been why Bobo punched him before he came to a stop.

“Son of a bitch!” Henry snarled. His mouth was a streak of blood, and his voice was bright-red-spots flying in the air. But he didn’t stay down long, he had skinny arms and hard fists. “It ain’t luck when you  _ cheat _ .”

Bobo punched him again, and they both slid in the dirt. Henry landed first but he was on his knees with a hand shoving Bobo flat on his back, balling up his fist to work out his frustrations about life.

Every hit he landed was a little pink spot of pain, filling up his face with fresh hot marks, but he wasn’t thinking about the knife in his belt. He reacted in half-time, caught up in punching wherever he could reach so he went grabbing for Bobo’s hand on his knife and  _ missed. _

They slid again when Bobo rolled them over. They were facing downhill, dragging their bodies onward like kids on a sled. Henry had one hand on his wrist and the other pushing back against his fist. The knife was hanging in the air, the tip of it pointed right at Doc Holliday’s wandering heart. “You can’t blame me for what you are,” Bobo said through the blistered pain around his mouth. “I didn’t make you a whore, I just offered you a price.”

Henry was pushing so hard against his hand that it took half his weight to keep the knife in place. The bastard was sneering back up at him, working through a problem they weren’t even having, and when he found a solution he liked best, he just  _ let go _ . 

And there they were, Bobo holding a knife he wasn’t going to use, and John Henry breathing hard with a victor’s smile. There had been enough people smirking at him like they had  _ won _ something to last him for the rest of his life. Bobo pushed the tip of the knife through the pretty sunflower pattern on Henry’s shirt right below his collar and he dragged it down in one long jerk, from neck to navel. 

It split with a low purr of effort. The vest ripped with it, from top to bottom. Henry’s skin turned pink where the knife had scraped but it didn’t  _ bleed _ . It wouldn’t even leave a mark. That was the assumption he’d made when he’d decided Bobo would rather have him alive. There were benefits to keeping Henry alive but so few of them required him to have  _ clothes _ . 

“Stop ripping my shirts!” 

Bobo traced his belly button with the tip of the knife, thinking how easy, and how  _ bloody _ it would be to tip it a little and let it split his skin. He could sink the knife so deep it struck bone. He could see what John Henry Holliday was really made of once and for all. Maybe he’d hand him over to Jack, see if they could find the bit that Wyatt couldn’t get enough of. 

But that was  _ momentary _ . It might have been  _ satisfying _ when it was happening, but Henry was the first thing he’d ever seen that scared the witch. You couldn’t give into short-sighted fantasies just because you  _ wanted _ them. 

Henry was barely breathing now, looking every direction but right at Bobo, working out how he was going to free himself. “As you might recall, I employed a number of whores in my day. I made a point to pay them fairly, exactly what was agreed upon.”

Bobo turned the knife so it was cutting through the dark hairs on Henry’s belly as he dragged it down toward the waistband of his pants. “You got the witch’s name.”

“I do seem to recall a point in our dealings when you threatened to tell the witch I was looking for her,” Henry said. He was digging a rock out of the dirt with his fingers, using his words and his fluttering stomach to be a distraction. “She did  _ not _ have the look of surprise when I saw her today that I would have expected from a woman who did not know I had escaped the well.” 

“If you’re accusing me of going back on a deal, I’m a man of my word.” He threw the knife over his shoulder. Henry pulled the rock free from the dirt with every intention of hitting him in the head and Bobo stole all his momentum by punching him in the chest. 

Henry yowled in pain, his whole body pulled together in one great motion. His next breath was a wheeze. Bobo rocked back up to his feet from his knees as Henry rolled onto his side. 

“I gave you the name of the witch,” Bobo said as he stepped over him. “I gave it to you,  _ in spite _ of how you did  _ not _ give me what I wanted.”

Henry was on his knees now, elbows in the dirt, coughing up clouds of dust. Hell had a way of making you forget what pain felt like before. Bobo could  _ feel _ it, he  _ remembered _ how sharp it could get, but this mortal world was short of sort of hellfire that could steal his breath. “What you wanted,” Henry was growling to himself. 

What a sight he was, on his knees, with his clothes split down the center. He was  _ covered _ in dirt, but those sorts of particulars didn’t matter to a man who never stopped getting up again. Henry was on his feet in the next minute, figuring out how his legs were meant to work as he stumbled closer. His voice was a hiss, “a man does not come back for  _ seconds _ when he does not like the taste of the meal.”

Bobo wrapped a hand around the nape of his neck and shoved him into the open tailgate. His elbows hit first with a resounding thud, and his boots scraped in the dirt. His body was bent like a gift, twisting to get free even as Bobo leaned across his back. “You need to decide,” he said into the cool sweat soaking through Henry’s hair, “if you’re  _ asking _ me to fuck you or asking me  _ not _ to.” 

He moved first and Henry pushed himself away from the truck with enough speed to send him stumbling back. He looked like an idiot with a bloody mouth and a ripped open shirt. It didn’t matter what he looked like because he  _ wasn’t _ an idiot. Not even now when he was nothing but a raw nerve. “I have not asked you for either,” Henry said.

“Then,  _ leave _ ,” Bobo said. He slammed the tailgate shut and left Henry standing there caught up between offended and confused.

\--

Misery loved company and the sort of miserable Doc found himself to be  _ at the moment _ was not particular about the sort of company it found. He’d started in the morning, smiling at whichever of Shorty’s customers looked like they were willing to share.

He’d eaten lunch with a white-haired grandma, listening with as much attention as could be mustered all about how she’d replaced her disrespectful children with perfectly lovable cats. She smelled like fur and catnip but she winked at him like she had already planned exactly how she’d have him tied to the bed.

Afternoon drinks were courtesy of a man who needed an ego boost. Doc was happy to keep losing at pool as long as someone else was buying the drinks. He was collapsed in a chair, smiling as sweetly as any well-practiced loser, listening to a man who didn’t know shit about anything tell him all about how to play the game like a professional.

Waverly served him three glasses of water while he sat out the lull between late afternoon drunks and the dinner crowd. Her frown was so sharp it left his skin feeling raw, but she traded him empties for refills and said, “are you alright?”

Doc was watered-down drunk at the moment, doing his best to reorganize his way of thinking. He was trying to tuck away the things he didn’t want to think about. But he smiled at her the best he could, “I will be.”

Some bad ideas had to see themselves through. He hadn’t been lying when he told Wynonna he was willing to do just about  _ anything _ to get the witch. He wasn’t harboring anything that felt like guilt, worrying over what Fish-and-Levi were doing in hell. Doc would have killed them both himself, a hundred times over, knowing exactly where they were going just to get his hands on that witch’s throat.

(Was that what he was thinking about? The sound of her voice, rising out of a damp memory, the way she’d smiled at him. The sound of those words she’d used when her power wrapped around his body like a snake. Was that what he was thinking about  _ now _ ?)

He got dinner out of a lonely bastard with a bad smell. They shared a course of snacks and beers. Doc showered him with passed for affection and approval when you were starving for it. That’s just who Doc was, a kind and giving sort of whore. The one that would give out whatever was needed to get what he wanted.

After dark, it was all hands-and-eyes, women with flirty stares and men that hadn’t thought they were into experimenting. Doc was drunker than he’d started the day, not nearly as drunk as he could have been, letting himself get pulled into whatever seemed like a bad enough idea. 

He had thought he was playing darts in a corner, but he found himself in a bathroom with a tongue in his mouth. It tasted like lipstick and light beer but he wasn’t the sort of man that got  _ picky _ about these sorts of things when they came so easy.

He had to pry his eyes open just to remember which one of the women he was kissing: blonde hair and short skirt. Her body felt like curves against his, a mountain of breasts pushing at his chest and a spread of hips beneath his hands.

Doc could have fucked her in the bathroom of the bar, and he just  _ might _ have but the door slapped against the frame and the woman he’d been kissing disappeared with a squeal of shock. 

There he was  _ drunk _ , with his mouth rubbed red and tasting like yesterday’s blood, looking at a red-eyed monster holding an innocent woman with a knife at her throat. The revenant didn’t have a face he recognized but the shush of his voice going, “tsk, tsk.” His nails were yellow and his fingertips were turned black from dirt, but they smoothed down the front of her quivering body with the presumption of  _ ownership _ . 

Doc’s shoulders were heaving, pressed up against the bathroom wall. His feet felt slippery underneath him but he wasn’t going to let something as silly as being a bit  _ too _ drunk stop him from pulling his gun. 

The revenant laughed when the woman started crying. He ran his tongue up her cheek, “now  _ darling _ ,” he purred at her, “this is not yours to be touching.”

“I’m sorry,” she gasped.

“Let her go,” Doc said.

The revenant smiled at him, the knife pressed into the worried-pink of her throat, it blanched a white streak that made her cry  _ harder _ . If Doc had been sober he would have taken the shot, he would have had hands steady enough to use that sliver of the bastard’s face visible behind the woman’s head. But there was no part of him that was steady.

“Whatever you want,” Doc said as he cocked the gun, “it does not involve the lady.”

“Maybe,” the revenant agreed. He stepped sideways and the woman was dragged along with the motion of his body. Her tears were streaks of black down her face, her eyes were wide and rolling in their sockets. She was looking for anything that qualified as a savior in a small space. 

“Help me,” she whispered.

“Oh, shhh,” the revenant whispered as he took another step toward the door. They were all revolving the room, the revenant inching toward the exit as Doc moved to keep the gun trained on whatever part of him could be seen. “Shhh,” he whispered into her hair, “he’s not going to do a  _ thing _ to save you, are you,  _ Henry _ ?”

Doc was a fresh bruise, aching everywhere on his body all at once like the liquor hadn’t done a single fucking thing to take the edge off. Bobo’s knuckles were imprinted so deep into his skin they were ridges on his ribs. The sound of his voice like a promise and a threat all at once, implying things about Doc’s intentions he couldn’t even figure out for himself. 

He was drinking off the idea that he’d fucked it up worse than he could fix this time; that Wynonna had deserved better than he’d bother to give her. That he couldn’t go back and tell her all the nasty little things she should have known before she rolled him into the dirt. How her skin would crawl as soon as she found out where he’d been. (And how he  _ enjoyed _ it.)

But  _ this _ , this foul-breathed monster with bloody-red-eyes and self-satisfied smirk laughing his name into the hair of an innocent woman? Well, that was an insult that a man couldn’t  _ forgive. _ He uncocked the gun just to watch the revenant relax, just to see how the muscles in his clutching arms loosened like jelly. 

Doc set the gun on the sink beside him. “I think you may have gotten the wrong impression about me.”

The revenant had to duck behind the woman to see him, he’d been hiding at an angle from the gun because it was  _ obvious _ . Maybe he’d forgotten or maybe he hadn’t been smart enough to know in the first place. But he leaned his face across the woman’s shoulder with a filthy grin full of things that never needed said, and didn’t see the knife until it was already in his skull. 

The woman screamed like a siren, again  _ and _ again. The weight of the revenant wrapped around her dragged her back a step and half to falling. The sound drew a storm of spectators, a growing crowd of screaming women and gun-toting amateur lawmen.

Doc picked up his gun and slid it back in the holster.

Across the room, the woman was sobbing and phone calls were being made. It didn’t matter who got called, it was going to be  _ Deputy Marshal Dolls _ that showed up.

\--

Bethany had always been a  _ useful _ sort of human to have around. She was exactly the sort of person that did whatever they were told and was always still willing to do just about anything else you had in mind. Maybe she wouldn’t win any beauty contests but she was pretty enough that she could flirt her way out of trouble if she were to go caught with something Bobo didn’t want making its way back to anyone with passing authority. 

Not that law enforcement in Purgatory had posed a  _ real  _ threat prior to Deputy Marshal Dolls and the Black Badge Division showing up uninvited. They all knew what had happened the last time Black Badge showed up to a town that didn’t need them, so Bobo hadn’t even needed to impress upon the revenants the importance of not getting caught.

But Bethany was like a nagging fly, always just out of eyesight, fluttering from one place to another wherever he went. Guilt and fear had a way of many humans stupid; their instincts caught between hiding and confessing until they ended up doing both at the same damn time.

Bobo didn’t  _ need _ to know what Bethany had done. He certainly didn’t need her following him around waiting for the right time to tell him. He didn’t need her drawing attention to her presence, he didn’t need her stirring up fresh shit in an already shitty situation. But there she was, lurking behind his back  _ again _ and there was a whole park of eyes, waiting to see how it was going to go down. 

Some questions  _ had _ to have answers. Some audiences demanded a show. 

Controlling his herd of stupid animals required a certain show of ruthlessness. Any sign of weakness would tear them apart at the seams, sending every revenant that thought of hell with  _ fondness _ searching for someone with more bodies to bury. 

“Bethany.” He made her name a growl just to make her jump, and he beckoned her over with the slightest motion of his hand. What a performance they were going to put on, him in a careless slouch at the center of a great stage and her like a whimpering dog waiting for it’s beating. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

Maybe it was too much to hope that she would look him in the face and lie to him. No, she was shivering in her coat, looking at him like he already  _ knew _ . That was the face of a woman that grew up at the mercy of men; the one that had decided that begging for mercy was better than being proven guilty. Even if she  _ hadn’t _ had something to tell him, she would have thought up something quick. “I didn’t  _ know _ .”

No, of course she hadn’t known. Bobo hadn’t even known  _ at the time _ that he’d end up with sole ownership of John Henry’s ass. But here they were, Bobo climbing to his feet like a monster and Bethany shrinking in place. 

Every set of ears was leaning in to hear and every set of eyes was staring, unblinking. Every foul-breathed beast was salivating over daydreams of blood. 

“No,” he said softly. He didn’t touch her, but his hand was trailing in the air around her as he took his time making a circle. He was implying a threat that made her turn with him. She must have been thinking she had some chance if she saw him moving, but she was only  _ human _ and she’d already given up the only chance she had. “Was he... _ good _ ?”

Bethany had tears on her face. She was hugging her body, trying to get smaller and safer. “No,” she gasped, “no, I mean--I don’t know?”

Bobo ran his hand up her quivering body, from the split of her shirt showing her breasts to the strumming pulse at her throat. He ran his fingers through her hair, and he waited while she worked out how he was going to  _ hurt _ her. 

Maybe he would wrap her up in butcher paper, drop her off at John Henry’s tent, write another little note about how all choices had consequences. They’d made a mess of a stupid fucking situation, and now this poor girl thought she was going to die. Killing her would have meant nothing to him; letting her live did nothing but cause him problems.

They whole fucking lot of them would hunt her down as soon as he sent her away. They’d flay her alive, they burn her in a pit in the ground, howling their triumph over nothing at all. Bethany wasn’t a threat to anyone, least of all him. 

“What,” he growled into the fragile skin of her face, “am I going to do about that?”

“I’m sorry,” she whimpered, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I’m sorry. He didn’t tell me.”

Well. Bobo considered that. He pushed his thumb against her jaw until her head was tipped back and he let the moment drag. Then he let her go, and her legs gave out. She landed in the dirt, gasping for breath and wheezing sobs. “You’ll have to make it up to me,” he said.

“I will,” Bethany gasped. “I will, anything. I’ll do anything.”

“Good,” Bobo said. He dropped back into his seat, stretched out on it how he’d been before. Where he could see all the faces watching him. “Take  _ Willard _ ,” he said, “and go tell John Henry that I am  _ very _ upset.”

\--

Last night Dolls had been a well-contained shake, standing opposite a fine set of iron bars, saying, “is there something you want to tell me about what happened in that bathroom?”

Doc had been sitting on a concrete bed, nursing the bad side of binge, smirking his way through saying: “would you have  _ preferred _ I let the revenant kill her?”

That was the night before, and this was the ugly light of day. This was Wynonna dressed for working out, leaning against the bars with something ugly and  _ sad _ on her face. “I shot your friend,” she said, “you want to know what he said before I sent him back to hell?”

No. Doc was still laying on his back, daydreaming about the old days when all you needed to cure what ailed you was a good shot of laudanum. He was thinking about how it started with a stupid fucking choice and how it had ended up like this. And  _ no _ he did not want to know what  _ delightful _ things were being said about him now. “I assume you intend to tell me regardless of my answer?”

Wynonna leaned forward to pull the cell door open. “Silly me,” she said, “I knew I wasn’t  _ special _ but I was good enough to hold you for at least twenty four hours.”

Doc had to hold his ribs to pull himself up to sit. He watched her staring at him, and thought  _ that _ was the look that Wyatt could never quite bring to use on him. That look like he was  _ disappointing. _ Like they were going to have to find a way to  _ work _ through it. “I did not get the impression that we were instigating a romantic relationship.”

“No,” Wynonna agreed. “Of course we weren’t. You’re free to go, if you can get past Dolls.” 

For all her brave talk, and all her disappointed looks, she still waited for him to gather his things and follow her out. His gun belt was on the desk nearest the door, his two guns were emptied of their bullets (left in a nice row) and sitting next to it. His knife was tucked into an evidence bag with the thick brown blood still smeared across the blade. 

Dolls was standing at the end of the desk, arms over his impressive chest, dressed exactly like Wynonna. (And after she’d just gotten done telling him that he should have had the decency to wait twenty four hours.) “This is the last time I’m bailing you out,” Dolls said.

(No, it wasn’t.)

Doc picked up the holster first, wrapped it around his hips without any sort of hurry. Wynonna was watching, one hip pushed against the desk and both her fantastically bare arms gripped around her waist. He picked up his guns next, and considered the worth of taking the time to reload them. 

There was such a thing as pushing your luck, so he gathered the handful of his helpfully arranged bullets and dropped them into his coat pocket. Dolls was still staring at him without blinking when the polite knock on the door interrupted them. 

The knife would need to be properly cleaned before it could be put back into its sheathe, until then it was just as easy to keep the filthy blade in the evidence bag. He picked it up while Dolls went to open the door.

It was Officer Haught, looking regretful, with Bethany and Willard (himself). “They said they had something important they had to tell the prisoner. They said they  _ couldn’t _ wait.”

“This day just keeps getting better,” Wynonna muttered to herself. She had one hand on Peacemaker as she slid her body between his and the lick-lapping revenant staring at him like a dog. “Hey Bethany,” Wynonna said.

“Hi Wynonna.” Bethany had tear streaks down her face, an unsteadiness to her walk. She was creeping along, aiming for something like bravery while Willard had settled for going out in a haze of belligerence. “I like your hair,” Bethany said.

“Yeah, thanks. New conditioner.”

Dolls pushed the door closed, “what’s the message?”

Bethany was  _ terrified _ and  _ that _ was the message. It was as clear as any message he’d ever gotten. Doc didn’t even need for her to look sideways at Willard to know exactly why they were there. “I’m supposed to tell John Henry,” she said.

“Well, he’s here,” Wynonna said. She motioned at him. “Right there.”

Willard was rolling his wet tongue at the edge of his mouth. He shoved Bethany forward so her shooks squeaked across the floor. His voice was a damp hiss, “tell him. Tell him what Bobo said.”

“Bobo said,” Bethany was staring right at  _ him _ . She was looking straight through him because he knew and she knew and nobody else at all  _ knew _ that he’d dragged her into this. They both knew exactly what was about to said and she didn’t want to say it anymore than he wanted to hear it. “He’s  _ very _ angry, John Henry.”

“Well, I’m not too happy myself,” Wynonna said. She pulled Peacemaker free from it’s holster, pointing it over Bethany’s shoulder at Willard all but slobbering on the floor. “Do you have a name, revenant?”

Willard just smiled, all teeth and no smarts. “You’ll run out of bullets before you run out of us.” He was looking at Wynonna when he said it but he wasn’t  _ talking _ to her. 

It didn’t matter what she said, or how Dolls tried to impose rationality on an irrational situation. It didn’t matter one damn bit about the ringing bang of the shot being fired, the heat of the hellfire dragging Willard back where he belonged. It only mattered how Bethany hadn’t moved  _ an inch _ . How she hadn’t ever stopped looking at him. 

Maybe that was the message, maybe that was what Bobo was telling him by sending  _ two _ . There was a mess, and people were going to get hurt, and choices had to be made. Doc said, “do you have a car?”

Bethany shook her head, she whispered, “no,” with tears in her eyes.

Doc looked sideways, and not at her, “I’ll get you out of the triangle.” When he looked back, Wynonna was frowning at him but she wasn’t going to  _ stop _ him. 

“There’s a bus,” she said. 

\--

Henry had taken care of the problem. According to the man who delivered the juicy tidbit of information, he should have been back from his roundtrip out of the Ghost River Triangle hours ago now. Buses were an unreliable sort of transportation, especially at the edge of the triangle. Things with more belly than brains were known to lurk at the crossing, waiting for the sort of easy prey that came stumbling out of those buses.

Of course, if Henry were a smarter man, he would have just stayed out in the great wide world. He could have  _ gone _ anywhere, a man like that? He didn’t need to know the rules to know how to bend them to fit his needs. He carried everything he’d ever need with him, a charming smile and an extra-special something that saw you overlooking all the things about him that didn’t make sense.

But Henry wasn’t smarter, or maybe he just couldn’t escape any more than any of them. 

“I do  _ not _ belong to you.” Henry was standing just far enough away to make a run for it if the mood struck him. Bobo hadn’t thought to ask him how he’d known to go looking for him at the dig site the first time, he wasn’t about to ask him this time. 

They were just repeating a scene. Bobo on a truck bed, smoking and waiting, and John Henry down the hill, hands on his hips, like he had something to prove. Bobo shrugged, “they’re not really the sort of men that worry too much about distinctions like that. I fucked you, you’re mine. They don’t get to touch.”

Henry was taking his time about deciding what he was going to do. “I suppose I am to take your message as a  _ warning _ ?”

Bobo shoved himself off the end of the truck bed. He slapped the tailgate shut, “would you rather I killed the girl? That’s an ugly precedent to set for a man like you, John Henry. I start killing all the women you’ve fucked and--” He turned, expecting Henry to be down the hill where he’d started, but there he was close enough to smell the bus exhaust soaked into his clothes. 

“You could have killed the girl,” Henry agreed.

He  _ should _ have killed the girl. He’d traded her life for the promise of vengeance on this man right here, and that was a promise he wasn’t going to be able to  _ keep _ . Not with Henry running around doing whatever the fuck he pleased. Bobo had one hand on the tailgate and the other hanging at his side. 

The air was biting cold, filled up with the promise of fresh snow, and he had to be here again in a handful of hours, shifting dirt to find fragments of bones. (Who knew Wyatt was such a butcher?) “You could have sent her back,” Bobo said.

“Oh I could have,” Henry said. He pulled his hat off and dropped it into the bed of the truck. The motion was so deliberate and so slow that there was no missing the intent behind it, but not even a million years of preparation would have made Bobo ready for Henry to kiss him. 

He wasn’t ready for the way Henry’s hand cupped around his neck, he wasn’t ready for how warm his mouth was, he wasn’t ready for how  _ hesitant _ the touch was. For how polite the space between their bodies was. Henry’s body was a fragile slant, half protecting his recent wounds and half waiting to be shoved away. 

That kiss was a coward’s offer, giving him an excuse to assume what Henry was looking for. Bobo’s hands were clenched in Doc’s coat, pulling him forward with their foreheads pressed together. They were making a fog between their faces. Bobo said, “ask me or  _ leave _ .”

Henry’s nails dug into his neck, his teeth were bare and white in the cold, sucking air through the gaps as he worked out whether he wanted this more than he wanted to be able to  _ deny it _ later. His eyes closed and his shoulders lifted and dropped, his breath was a great steam of air. He said, “fuck,” mostly to himself, and then his hand tightened on Bobo’s neck. He used that grip to pull them together, turned so his back was pressed against the truck and Bobo was tucked against his body. His free hand was against Bobo’s back, urging him closer. “Fuck me,” is what he said, like he’d been working out exactly how he wanted it to sound for  _ years _ . 

\--

Bobo’s answer was a growl, the creak of the tail gate being pulled against his back and then he stepped back. 

“Oh well if you did not…”

“You’re  _ human _ .” That was obvious enough it didn’t need to be said. Bobo was wearing gloves, motioning at his work attire, an ugly set of serviceable clothes with a more tolerable degree of fur. “It’s too cold out here for  _ me _ .” 

Doc grabbed his hat since they were  _ relocating _ . It wasn’t that he was displeased to be offered a place more suitable for removing his clothes, but he hadn’t  _ expected _ it to matter. The best he might have hoped for, if he’d thought about it, was to make use of the cab of the truck or the shabby looking wooden shed farther up the hill. But Bobo led him down and around a curve to a dingy red-and-white RV with paper-covered windows and faded signs taped the door.

Inside smelled like dust and old carpet. There was a flickering lightbulb to see by, a tiny desk shoved in a corner with a rusting gray file cabinet pressed against the end. Doc was standing by the door, knocking his boots against a black crate stuffed to the brim with rolled maps. “Well, this is…”

“Inside,” Bobo finished for him. That must have been enough consideration for one day. The way he pulled Doc away from the wall didn’t match with how he’d found him a comfortable place to fuck in. The grip on his body wasn’t sweet and it didn’t  _ care _ . 

Hunger was its own kind of satisfying, and Doc sure as hell hadn’t come looking for sweetness from Bobo. He had come for the simplicity of  _ wanting _ ; for a reprieve from failed expectations.

He had come to be kissed like this, pulled closed and pawed at with a tongue in his mouth. He had wanted the selfishness of fingers digging into his sore skin. He pushed and Bobo fell back against a paper-covered wall. The man’s skin was hot as fire under his clothes, but the buckle of his belt felt like ice on Doc’s fingers. 

Bobo shoved his coat off, followed it down his arms to pin them behind his back as he pushed off the wall and turned them. Doc’s shoulders hit a rattling board full of thumb-tacks and notices. The paper was ripping under the slide of his shoulders, following him down the wall as he found himself getting shorter. Bobo’s mouth was back on his neck, one hand ripping the buttons at the top of shirt loose to get at the mottled skin he liked the best. 

Doc was a man of limited shirts, and Bobo was a bastard that didn’t seem to care. He pulled at the buttons before they were ripped off entirely, so the whole shirt was open around his chest and it was only the paper-thin undershirt he ran the risk of losing. 

The trailer had walls and a roof and a little bit of heat, but it was too cold  _ still _ to worry about pulling off more clothes than he had to. Bobo landed on his knees first, so it was no effort at all to lean against him until he was laying on his back on the dirty floor. The carpet felt like sandpaper under his palm, rough enough to scrape his skin right off. He was holding himself up with one hand and using the other to work Bobo’s jeans loose. The zipper opened with a purr, and Bobo’s teeth dug into the meat of his chest in time with the press of Doc’s hand against his cock. 

This was about the time Doc usually found himself rolled onto his back, but Bobo was relaxing against the ground like just this  _ once _ he was willing to see where this was going to lead. That was generous of a man, even a smiling demon like this one. 

Doc kissed him just so he wouldn’t have to look at his grinning face. His grip was drier than he’d like, but Bobo’s moaning mouth didn’t seem to think it was the  _ worst _ thing he’d survived. Bobo’s hands settled on his waist first, pressed across the prominent ridge of the leather holster, but they slid down the small of his back to dig into his ass. 

Now, he had received a number of compliments about his ass, everything from an appreciation for the aesthetics to it’s carnal uses, but very few of them were as generous as the rumbling growl that Bobo made. Even fewer still that were as honest as the roll of his Bobo’s hips driving his leaking dick through Doc’s hand. Most men didn’t bother with appreciating things they’d already had a chance to  _ try _ . 

Bobo had to let go to reach between them and push his jeans down so his cock was free. They were both staring at it, slippery and hot, sliding through Doc’s fist. It was a powerful thing, having a man laid out under you like this. He didn’t have any  _ illusions _ of control because the only person keeping Bobo on his back was the man himself, but that was part of the dirty thrill of it. Doc was made of mortal limbs, and he was being  _ allowed _ to do what he wanted. 

Power like that filled up your gut, it spread like a wildfire so you were catching your breath over a dry tongue, thinking about all the things you could do next. He was enjoying the moment, watching how Bobo’s body was getting restless, feeling his thighs moving underneath his own. Bobo’s shirt was pushed up over his belly and every muscle was slick and tight, rolling with the motion of his lazy thrusts. His arms were laying at his sides, because he was just going to see where this was going.

Doc had  _ daydreams _ about the sort of things he could do to this man if he was just going to lay still and  _ let _ him. (That was the trouble, really, the difference between what he’d do and what Bobo would let him do.) They didn’t have half the time, supplies or  _ warmth _ to do the sorts of things Doc wanted to do, so he pushed his knees back along the carpet. It burned through his jeans, leaving wet-pink marks on his knees. 

Bobo’s hands were reaching for his hair before he got close enough to get his mouth on the man’s cock. There were bad memories in that touch, but nothing that felt like meanness in the softness of his hands holding Doc’s hair out of his face. That was a kind little selfishness that let Bobo watch the flat of Doc’s tongue lick his cock from base to tip. Doc couldn’t even muster an ounce of ire about it, because if he had the chance to watch himself suck a dick, he would have done it.

(He might have done it. He had more than one encounter that featured more than one mirror quite prominently.)

Maybe this was the thing that Bobo had wanted and hadn’t gotten. Getting to watch Doc getting used to the feel of his cock in his mouth. Getting to see how his lips fit around him, getting to feel how his tongue moved when it was something he  _ wanted _ . Because there was a world of difference between pushing the wet head of your cock into someone’s throat and watching them do it themselves. 

“Oh  _ fuck _ ,” Bobo was gasping. He was trying to watch with his back arched and his head tipped back. His hands were scrambling for some kind of grip but his arms were shaking. His hips pushed up and Doc let him do it because  _ he _ wanted to. 

That was the difference between demanding and asking. 

Oh, and it must have been a hell of a difference between he’d barely gotten started when Bobo was snarling his name like a warning. Doc wasn’t as big a fan as the taste of semen as others, he certainly was the sort to lick it off his lover when he was done with them. But Bobo had a taste for that sort of thing (if their brief history was any indication) and that must have been why he pulled himself up the man’s body with that taste thick across his tongue. Bobo kissed him first, dragging him down and pressing into his mouth with unashamed hunger. 

Doc was rolled on his back with Bobo still licking the taste out of his mouth, and that was  _ something _ . Between getting punched and sucking dick, his mouth was sore and it didn’t matter much to either of them because they were still kissing long after they’d swallowed the last of it. 

One of Bobo’s arms was still under his back, he was leaning to the side with one knee between Doc’s spread thighs and a hand down his pants. His hands were hotter than they should have been, slicked with sweat or spit or semen and it didn’t matter. He didn’t stop kissing Doc just because men needed to breath, they were chasing after the pretense of violence they kept striving for, crashing their mouths back together in between ragged breaths. Bobo’s grip was merciless the way his fucking was, his hand was jerking in perfect rhythm, but the weight of his body kept Doc flat on his back. He couldn’t do anything but lay there and let it happen. 

\--

The space heater had been new over a decade ago, but it  _ worked _ and that was all that mattered. Henry was laying in a puddle on the floor, piecing himself back together but once the sweat started going cold he was going to start bitching about the cold. For now, he was just breathing with his hands on his chest and his eyes closed.

Bobo fixed his pants so he could lean against the wall by the heater, patting the flat of his coat, finding nothing at all like a pack of cigarettes worth smoking. That was the trouble with having too many coats, you had too many pockets to lose things in. “Give me a cigarette.”

Henry’s lip curled up in disgust but he did not open his eyes; he was explaining, “I do not smoke  _ cigarettes _ ,” like it  _ mattered _ to anyone at all. But he patted his own pockets until he found a (cigarette) cigarillo and his lighter. He handed them both in the general direction of Bobo’s voice without ever opening his eyes.

“I thought this ragdoll thing was because of how I fucked you,” Bobo said. He took a drag off the cigarillo as soon as he’d gotten it lit and let the smoke settle into his lungs like tea steeping. It wasn’t even a habit he  _ liked _ , but there were moments (like this one) when it felt as necessary as breathing. 

“I am  _ enjoying _ the  _ moment _ ,” Henry said. He held his hand out and Bobo passed the cigarillo back to him. And he laid there and  _ enjoyed _ the moment a little while longer. He didn’t move until the cold started making his skin turn to goosebumps. When he finally moved, it was only to fix his clothes and pull his coat closed around his chest. He opened his eyes, at least, “what is this  _ charming _ building supposed to be?”

“It’s an office for the dig,” Bobo leaned forward and plucked the cigarillo out of his hand. 

Henry snorted. 

“Something funny?”

“Oh,  _ nothing _ . You are a creature from  _ hell _ with an  _ office _ .” He sat up then, and turned so they were looking at one another. His hair was a disaster of fist shapes, still standing up in peaks around his head. There were fresh marks on his neck over fading ones. The slim end of the knife wound was turning soft pink as it healed. “What are you digging for?”

Constance was an echo in his head, a wet stain on his body, whispering:  _ I’m the only one that’s ever cared _ . Maybe she had a point, and maybe Henry didn’t  _ care _ but he had anger and motivation and one or the other was a better weapon than Bobo had against her. 

“The Stone Witch’s demon sons. Wyatt cut them into pieces and buried them all over the God-damn triangle.” He offered the cigarillo back and Henry just stared at it, burning itself down between his pinched fingers. He was watching the smoke rising like a twirl, working out how he felt about the information he was being given.

When he moved, it was only to take the cigarillo. “I am going to kill the witch.”

“Be my guest,” Bobo said, “she’s never going to give me back what I need.” That must have been the thing he’d been avoiding admitting for  _ years _ . Even things that crawled out of hell needed some kind of hope to keep from throwing themselves back. Bobo wasn’t giving up on the idea, but  _ adjustments _ had to be made. 

Constance needed to die; Henry wanted to kill her.

“Tell me where I should find her.”

She wouldn’t be there anymore. She’d laid her hands on the bones of her dead boys and she’d seen the face of the man that was certain to be her doom. Constance wasn’t going to let herself be found when she knew how it would end. “She’s a lawyer, look her up.” 

Henry stubbed the cigarillo out on the carpet and tucked the butt back into his pocket. “Why didn’t you kill the girl?”

“She didn’t deserve to die.” That was all it came down to. Men like Willard deserved everything that had happened to them, and maybe God had a separate opinion about girls like Bethany but Bobo had been to hell. She was just trying to survive and she didn’t  _ deserve _ what would have happened to her in that RV park.

Henry didn’t move, for a moment it seemed like he wasn’t even breathing, and then cleared his throat. He had some kind of thing he wanted to say, but he tipped forward so his knees were on the carpet and his hand was reaching out to pull at Bobo’s coat. They met in the middle, confusing one another with a kiss that didn’t belong to either of them. 

“Watch your back,” Bobo said before Henry could pull away again.


End file.
